Close Quarters
by Wholocklolly
Summary: Molly Hooper boards a train headed for London, unwittingly entering the clutches of one Sherlock Holmes. One-shot.


**A/N: This is a one shot period fiction based off the sexeh train scene in Parade's End, written for my friend Chandler. Hope you like baby!**

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Molly Hooper hitched the long drapes of her dress up daintily, her finger tips poised against the heavy, lavish material. She had been hoping for something a bit less... Well she shed been hoping for something a bit /less/. But, her mother had insisted, as always.

Once she'd boarded the train headed for London, she glided down the aisles, soon finding her respective car. Upon entering, what she saw startled her to some degree.

There was a man, seated on the left wall seat, legs primly crossed at the ankles. Unruly black curls spilled over his forehead, but it almost looked effortlessly flawless the way they were. Like you could just tell he'd climbed out of bed that morning and hadn't touched them at all, yet they shined in the hanging chandelier light overhead.

He seemed startled as he looked up, piercing blue eyes standing out amongst pale skin and dark curls. Molly swallowed and straightened. "I am sorry, but I think this is my car?" She didn't mean it to sound so questioning, but he was a bit intimidating, to her credit.

The man blinked. "I do not believe it to be," he said and held up his ticket stub. Molly squinted to see it, then procured her own, tilting her head a bit in confusion.

"Oh, this can't be right. I reserved a single person car." She twisted a bit and looked behind her at the steward, before looking back. "I'm so sorry to have bothered you." She slipped back out and closed the door behind her, speaking rapidly with the steward about the mix up.

Oh, so it _was_ her car. She tentatively pushed the door back open, this time slipping inside and closing it after herself. She slowly turned. "Umm, hello again. It seems we are indeed sharing a car."

The man simply nodded as she sat down across from him. He didn't really appear to be amiable company, or at least sociable in the least, so Molly kept to herself, focusing on her thick bound book.

After nearly half an hour of silence between them, the only sounds echoing through the cabin of dishes clattering, and the continual _chug _of the train grating against the tracks, the man spoke.

"Good choice," his deep baritone voice startled Molly, and she looked up abruptly, slightly confused, eyes wide. He gestured to her book with his index finger. "Your book. Good choice."

Molly looked down, trying not to be affected by his rich voice. Once she'd collected herself, she quickly looked back up. "Yes, The Odyssey is one of my favourites." She smiled personably.

The man nodded, before once again falling back into silence.

Molly tried to focus on her book, but his impossibly deep voice kept echoing through her mind at every moment. Soon enough, she forwent her book, stowing it in her suitcase overhead that had been brought in at some point.

She crossed her legs and adjusted her skirt, bent on engaging this mysterious man in conversation. "I'm Molly Hooper. How do you do?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he said in that rich voice of his that made Molly almost shiver with delight. She was glad his eyes were closed. "Well, thank you."

There was a few more moments of silence, before Molly once again broke it. "So, what's bringing you to London?" She asked, always cheery, smiling wide.

His eyes had been closed, and his fingers had been oddly steepled under his chin. "Consulting work."

Molly tilted her head a bit, and hummed. "Oh, what kind?"

His brilliant blue eyes flashed open. "I work with the police and assist in solving crimes when they are out of their depth, which is nearly always. And I know that you are traveling to London, in hopes of going to University to study as a pathologist. Odd choice of work for a lady of no more than twenty years of age."

Molly simply gaped at for a moment, before she closed her mouth. "How on earth could you possibly know all of that?"

Sherlock's hands dropped into his lap. "There was a slip of paper poking out of your book indicating your acceptance letter. You've been reviewing it lately, positively ecstatic about your accepted studentship. That, and your boots."

"My boots?" Molly questioned, still in awe of his deductive abilities.

"Yes. Obviously, you are not the type for such lavish dress. But, your mother insisted, as always. You slipped into some boots when she was not looking, sensible for the cobblestone streets of London."

"Yes, but what does that have to do with my going to University?" she questioned, not being to help herself from glancing down at her boots.

"A University student cannot afford a cab all over London. You plan on doing lots of walking." He seemed quite pleased with himself as she simply gave him the most quizzical of looks. "That's… wow. That's brilliant."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you."

Molly smiled pleasantly. "I can see why the police like you, then. You are quite the inquisitor."

Sherlock nodded, and closed his eyes once more, and for a moment, she thought the conversation was over and she'd have to find _something_ to preoccupy herself, but he spoke again. "So tell me, why do you wish to study pathology? I'm sure a young woman such as yourself could do anything she wishes in this day and age."

Molly blushed a bit, and twisted in her seat. He was so pleasant to her, but she suspected it to be a rouse. One could never tell so early on in a conversation. "Well, I suppose it may be because it helps give people closure. A final rest. I'm helping them in my own way." She smiled, and Sherlock hummed, reopening his eyes.

"Interesting." Suddenly, a bump on the train sent them forward, and Molly flew down against the floor with a small yelp. Her skirts were a mess, and her arse and legs were on clear display.

Sherlock stood up quickly and assisted in helping her to her feet, and another bump sent Molly tumbling into his chest, causing him to fall flat on his bum, sitting down once more, Molly against him, practically in his lap. She let out an embarrassed noise, moving to pull away, but his fingers were suddenly encircled around her wrists. She looked up and gasped at how close he was, and at how dark his eyes had gotten.

Suddenly, their mouths were pressed together in a flurry of fabric, and she was vaguely glad for the chugging of the train to drown out the sounds they were making as they attacked one another's necks and mouths, anywhere they could reach, really.

Molly let out a startled giggle when his hands trailed up her waist to cup her breasts firmly through the tight fabric, tearing it away to reveal her. Molly didn't have room to be horrified, as his head dipped down and his mouth began ravishing her. She let out a high pitched moan just as the train squealed. She could feel him pressing firmly into her under things, causing her to gasp even louder.

Her fingers wound into his unruly black curls as he continued to lick and suck at her breasts, no doubt leaving marks. She tugged gently on his hair, and he growled deep within his throat.

Soon enough, foreplay wasn't enough for him, and his hands dug between them, wading through the cloth to get to the front of his trousers. He managed to tug them down enough to release his cock, and then moved his hand to tug down her petticoat.

Molly could feel him, hot and heavy and hard pressing against her, and she smirked devilishly as she clamped her hands down on his shoulders and moved off of him, only to slide down fast and hard, eliciting a small grunt from him, and a moan from her.

She gripped his shoulders hard as she began to furiously rock her hips, sliding off of him then back down in time with the moving of the train. She was grinning the entire time, but his calm, cool, demeanour had melted away, and his lips had parted, his eyes wide.

Her hands slid down, gripping his lapels firmly as she bit down on her lip and continued to ride him. His hands, at some point, had fallen to rest on her hips, gripping her hard, his groans and the sounds of them echoing about the cabin, still thankfully drowned out by the train.

Molly's head dipped back down to capture his lips in a passionate kiss as she could feel her impeding end draw near, and she knew he wasn't too far away as his hips had begun to buck up at various intervals, hitting her so deeply she let out a moan.

Suddenly, it seemed this position wasn't good enough for Sherlock, as without pulling out from her, he pressed her back against the seat and threw back the swaths of fabric that was her dress, and began to drive continuously inside of her.

Molly let out a high pitched moaning whimper of his name, and after a few moments she reached her end, cursing softly. The feeling of her clenched so tightly around him pushed Sherlock over the edge, and he spilled over into her, burying his face into her breasts.

The only sound that could be heard in the room was their loud panting, and the continual chug of the train as they both came down from their momentary highs.

He pulled out of her a few moments later and tucked himself back away into his trousers, adjusting himself, before apologetically assisting with her torn corset. They sat side by side in companionable silence for the rest of the trip.

When it was time for them to depart, he assisted her with her luggage and gathered his own, kissing her on the cheek as they both went their separate ways down the busy London street.


End file.
